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About Genoa

Clarice… sex-dating’s a wild beast, innit? Slippery, messy, like a gutted fish. I reckon it’s all about the chase—thrills, not love. Folks swipe right, hopin’ for a spark, but half the time it’s just sweaty palms and awkward hellos. Me, I’d rather dissect it than date it. Reminds me of *A Serious Man*—poor Larry Gopnik, flailin’ in chaos, tryin’ to figure out why the universe screws him. Sex-dating’s the same, Clarice… “What’s goin’ on?!”—you scream it, but the app just shrugs.

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So, I roll into Capriolo, right? The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m feeling all kinds of good vibes. But then, bam! I hit traffic on Via Garibaldi. Like, seriously? It’s a small town! How’s there traffic? I’m sittin’ there, fuming, thinking about how I could be sipping that cappuccino instead of staring at some dude’s bumper sticker that says “I love Capriolo.” Yeah, buddy, I get it.

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